These days if a new movie isn’t an outright remake there’s a good chance it’s still a tribute to the feel of an old title or genre. In the right hands (I’m looking at you, Quentin Tarantino) it can be a great romp through familiar ground with enough of a spin to make what’s borrowed feel fresh. Then there are those whose retro elements are so carefully sampled and stirred that any soul has been squeezed out (see Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow). Too much thought and money often goes into recreating the look of classic periods, when the originals were likely the creative result of severely limited time and budgets. I probably don’t need to say I prefer to see the effort spent supporting a story rather than purely for the sake of style.

Russ Meyer would probably have loved 2009’s Bitch Slap, which carefully apes his 1965 exploitation epic Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill! But then Meyer might be satisfied just wallowing in the spectacle of three buxom babes thrashing the tar out of each other and consider any story an unnecessary embellishment. The intro sequence is a quick-cut collage of kick-ass babes from past generations driving, shooting, karate chopping and shimmying for all they’ve got. It’s a great montage that builds high expectations for the film to come. The Pulp Fiction style plot is entirely incomprehensible and ridiculous, but of course that’s not the point. It’s all about the different ways our tight-clad anti-heroines can tussle and gyrate when not being doused by bottomless buckets of water. Do note there are no complaints yet here. Ironically the trouble comes from campy TV director Rick Jacobson trying too hard to deliver the goods. The catfights are perfectly gratuitous and creatively choreographed by stunt coordinator Zoe Bell, but just go on way too long. The desolate desert battlefield makes for a great main location but frequent flashbacks are ruined by horrible green-screened sets. The action is as over-the-top as you can probably get but the flashy editing and bright colors lack the grit and spontaneity of classic grindhouse. And really, does a spoof of a spoof carry any hipster cred? I have to hand it to the actresses who all play their pscyho-bimbo characters with panache, never winking through the clever cussing and forceful groping. I’m sure my complaints will be ignored by anyone looping slow-mo scenes of the trio bending over to dig dirt in push-up bras and high heels.

The opening credits of Ti West’s The House of the Devil instantly alerted me to a different beast. A slow and deliberate pace is set right away, played out to a wonderfully kitschy prog-electro score. It’s not the only nod to genre master John Carpenter. The simple story starts with Samantha, a cash-desperate college sophomore accepting a questionable baby-sitting gig in a creepy Victorian mansion from an even creepier middle-aged couple. Decades are rolled back as much by the wardrobe and lack of cell phones as by a desaturated palette and stripped-down directing. The naturalness of everything helps the subtle oddities stand out and heighten the tension. For most of the film almost nothing truly frightening takes place yet the atmosphere and suspense build intensely. We’ve seen inevitable doom spelled out the same way innumerable times over the years but Sam’s believable naivete makes us worry for her life as she dances carefree around an unfamiliar house. The pay-off is rushed and not as extreme as more modern themed horrors though fitting for the established mood and period. It’s admittedly a little boring in spots and utterly predictable but kept my interest for the long run. Damn if I didn’t have to check the release date more than once to make sure I wasn’t watching a lost late-1970s slasher. For that alone I’d call it a success.

Bitch Slap:
The House of the Devil:

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